


The Little Helper

by TwisterMelody



Series: Child of Baker Street [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Family, Fluff, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At nearly two years old, Hamish isn't sure what this whole Christmas thing is all about. Nonetheless, there's an undeniable joy in the and he's excited for whatever it is, and makes the most out of his Christmas Eve in 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Helper

"No, no, Hamish," his Papa's warm voice cooed in his ear, "leave the ornaments on the tree."  
  
The glimmering red ornament was taken out of his hands and placed on the impossibly tall tree in front of him once more. Hamish frowned. Couldn't he see that they were interesting?  
  
He had seen so many trees at the park, but this one was different. This one, set up near the fireplace, had lights and shining things and even a scarf! Well, it resembled a scarf to him, anyway. Hamish reached out to touch the long strand of silver that wrapped around the strange green tree. He gave it a tug or two, causing the tree to shake and rattle before his hands were gently pulled away. He turned his head to find his Papa crouching behind him with a small tin of the shining ornaments.  
  
"Don't give me the old puppy dog eyed frown, you look just like your Dad when you do that," he laughed. "How about you help me decorate, then? Would you like that?"  
  
The tin was held out to him, and carefully as he could, he picked up a bright blue orb. He turned it over a few times in his small hands for inspection before he sought out an empty place on the tree. With a bit of guidance on how to do the task, the decoration was hung, and he was immediately pleased with himself. He ginned toothily at his Papa each time he repeated the process.  
  
"John," he heard his Dad's voice from somewhere behind him. He turned quickly to see him holding up a piece of what looked like an odd plant. "I don't see why I have to put this up."  
  
"The mistletoe? It's tradition, Sherlock."  
  
His Dad grumbled on as he rummaged through a box on the coffee table, pulling out bells and antlers and candles. He set them aisde on top the coffee table. "As if I need an excuse to kiss you," he muttered.  
  
His Papa chuckled at him, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as a smile came about his lips. Hamish went back to decorating. Standing barefoot on the hardwood floor, he reached up on his tippy toes to get the ornaments as high up as he could. More than once he nearly toppled forward, overestimating his balance. One day, he decided, he would be tall enough to do these things all by himself. But for now, his Papa was there to catch him, always.  
  
"And what about this?" the deep voice questioned.  
  
Hamish turned to look, and the sight before him made him stumble backwards, but he was caught before he lost his footing completely. Gasping, his deep blue eyes widened in fear before he turned and clutched on to his Papa, who was still crouched next to him. He found safety as he hid his face in his Papa's jumper, and two long arms curled around him in a comforting way.  
  
"Sherlock, take that off."  
  
 _Sherlock_? But that couldn't be his Dad! With his hands fisted in the cloth, Hamish risked a tiny peek to the tall man in question, suddenly standing where his Dad was not even a few moments ago. He was tall like him, the hair on his head looked the same, but... His Dad didn't have strange white hair on his face, so it couldn't possibly be him!  
  
The bearded man whose messy white beard scared him furrowed his brow. Slowly, he stepped closer and crouched down in front of him. "Hamish," he said gently, "there's nothing to be frightened of. It's not real, see?" He tugged down on the beard for a brief moment to expose his bare face before letting go, the hair jumping back into its previous position.  
  
So it _was_ his Dad! He didn't like him looking scary, he decided, and it wasn't nice to scare people, either. "Off, Da," he pleaded in a small voice, pointing at the beard, "off."  
  
His Dad came closer. "Hamish, it's just -"  
  
The hair seemed to jump out from his face in a threatening manner. The proximity of the image was unsettling, and he didn't want it anywhere near him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he he buried his face in his Papa's jumper. A soothing hand smoothed down his back as there was a rustling of soft fabric behind him.  
  
His Papa's voice was soft and warm. "Hamish, look."  
  
Turning his head only slightly away, he opened an eye to see a a white tangle of false hair held out to him in a large hand. Looking at his Dad, he was relieved to see it gone from his face.  
  
"Go on," his Dad urged, "see for yourself that it isn't real."  
  
Hamish stared at the object in his hand, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, his Papa's hand reached out, ruffling through the hair to prove a point. Hamish narrowed his eyes and slowly reached his hand out, using the gentle touch of his fingertips to investigate the material. The soft strands tickled his skin, and he instantly pulled back from the sensation as if burned. He shied away from it, burying his face in his Papa's jumper once more.  
  
His Papa sighed. "Looks like he's still afraid of them, then. We should probably get that out of sight."  
  
"I agree."  
  
The sound of large shoes stepping across the wooden floor echoed through his ears a couple of times before coming to a halt.  
  
"That's not what I meant, Sherlock."  
  
"Why not? It seemed an appropriate solution." His Papa breathed out an agitated sigh at the words. "It's alright now, Hamish. Nothing to fear as I've taken care of the problem."  
  
Pulling away from the comfort of the jumper, he turned and saw his Dad gesturing to the cackling flames of the fireplace. In the midst of the flames, the hair was burning, turning into nothing more than a memory right before his eyes. No more scary beards!  
  
When he turned back, his Papa's steady hands gently cupped his small round face. Carefully and lovingly, he thumbed away the stray tears that had managed to escape from his eyes. "It's okay to be afraid," he assured him, "though it probably isn't okay to throw everything you're afraid of into a pit of fire." He smiled kindly and kissed the top of his unruly mop of curls. "Come on, now, let's finish this tree."  
  
And he did just that. He helped his Papa decorate the tree as his Dad hung overly large socks above the fireplace. Why was he doing that? Hamish began to think of the entire night as odd. From a tree in the living room to hanging up socks, he became genuinely confused as to what was happening. His parents spoke to each other about Christmas Eve, but the words had no meaning to his young ears. They lightly teased each other throughout the evening, and Hamish caught them smiling a lot. They were all at home together. He liked these kinds of days best.  
  
Eventually, he toddled over to the box his Dad had been going through over the course of the evening the evening. He had seen him take out so many odd looking things. Unknowing the contents, he saw it as another mystery to solve for himself! Peering into the box, he came upon some fuzzy red and white thing with a ball at the end. he turned it over in his hands. He concentrated, wondering just what in the world it could be. It could be a toy, but... No, that wasn't right. He held it up high above his head to get a better look. Was it a weird kind of sock? Or maybe it -  
  
His thoughts were interrupted with the sound of ceramic shattering to the floor.  
  
"Well Sherlock," his Papa began after a moment of silence, "you've just murdered a snowman."  
  
His Dad merely shrugged in return. "Wouldn't be the first time."  
  
Odd thing of red and white in his hand, Hamish walked over to the broken remnants of said snowman on the ground. Small white pieces of ceramic were scattered about the floor, sharp, jagged edges everywhere he looked. He attempted another step, but he was quickly swooped up into his Dad's arms.  
  
"Can't have you getting hurt, can we?"  
  
Hamish glanced down to the floor, taking in the enormity of the mess.  
  
"Messy," he said in his best imitation of a grown up voice.  
  
"Fairly accusatory for someone with animals strewn about his room, don't you suppose?"  
  
Not understanding what he meant, he turned his attention back to the bundle of red and white in his hands. He turned it around and over, but it still looked so odd! What was it supposed to be, exactly?  
  
"It's a hat," his Dad's voice boomed as if he could read his mind. One long arm reached around, pulling the material from Hamish's little hands. With one quick movement, the hat lay upon his head. "Hamish, look," his Dad said, gesturing at the mirror they stood in front of.  
  
A hat? What an odd hat! Certainly it wasn't for him, as it was nearly engulfing his entire head, one side of the white trim drooping over his right eye. He fumbled a bit as he pulled it off of his head. Within a moment, his mind was made up, and he sat the hat on top of his Dad's dark curls. It hung from his head a bit more lopsided than he liked. Utter concentration washed over his face as he tugged on the hat with all the strength he had. He ended up pulling it over his Dad's head and down to the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes. He grinned with delight at how silly he looked. His Dad should see how silly he looked, too!  
  
"Daddy! Look!"  
  
His Dad's face scrunched up a fraction. "Bit of a difficult task at the moment."  
  
"So you're Santa now?" his Papa asked with a grin as he appeared with the broom in his hand. He quickly tugged on the hat exposing his Dad's silvery eyes.  
  
"Apparently so. And that would make you -"  
  
"Don't," he warned as he swept the jagged pieces into the dust pan.  
  
"What? I wasn't going to say elf," he insisted as his Papa eyed him cautiously. "The other thing. The ridiculous creature with the feet."  
  
The remark earned a glare from his Papa as he walked to the bin. "I am _not_ a hobbit," he muttered.  
  
Hobbit? Was that a kind of animal, like a rabbit?  
  
"Hobbit," Hamish repeated, liking the way the word sounded as it rolled off his tongue. "Hobbit!"  
  
A quick knock at the door frame distracted him, and when he saw who it was, he wriggled around in his Dad's arms, trying to break free. Finally, he was let down, and he dashed across the room at lightning speed, colliding with the person standing at the door. He wrapped up arms around the two legs in front of him. He looked up, grinning wildly as his dark hair framed his face as like halo.  
  
"Miss Hussin!" he exclaimed, uncaring if he didn't get the name quite right. This talking thing was more difficult than it seemed.  
  
She smiled softly and ran a hand through his hair. "Are you ready to help me downstairs, young man? We need to let your parents finish wrapping..." She brought a finger to her lips and spoke quietly. "Well, you needn't know about that."  
  
Downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's flat, he followed her around with curiosity. He really liked her a lot. She was always kind to him and spoke softly, and sometimes when his Papa and Daddy had to go away for a while, he would spend the night in her flat. He never felt afraid or lost when they had to leave him there, though, for he always thought of Mrs. Hudson as brave.  
  
They puttered around the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson grabbing various things from the refrigerator and cupboards as Hamish watched with wide eyes. Before he knew it, the two of them were putting food together at the table with Hamish standing on one of the chairs. He recognized the eggs and butter and sugar, but not the other stuff they were putting into the bowl. The white powdery stuff caused a bit of a mess, and when Hamish clapped his hands, he was pleased with the cloud it made in the air in front of him.  
  
Mrs. Hudson tried telling him it was flour, but that was ridiculous! Flowers looked nothing like that! He paid it no nevermind, too excited by the thought of making something! If only he knew what he was making, that is.   
  
When Mrs. Hudson pulled the creation out of the bowl and flattened it on the tabletop, he was confused. To him, it looked like a tiny, sticky, sweet smelling blanket of beige.  
  
"Here you go," she said, placing the cut out of a star on the flattened mass. "See this? You press down like so..." She pressed down on the area and pulled the cut out away, revealing the shape of a star outlined. "Then you pull up on it, and put it on this pan," she said as she acted out her words. Hamish stared in amazement. "Think you can help me do that?"  
  
Hamish obliged, and they cut out what felt like a million stars! Or maybe less. Hamish hadn't gotten to the counting thing yet, though he was trying. Soon, the flat was filled with the warm and familiar aroma of vanilla sugar, and Hamish licked his lips at the memory of the taste as Mrs. Hudson pulled the freshly baked stars out of the oven.  
  
After waiting - too much waiting for the impatient little boy - they were deemed safe enough to decorate. Armed with a small container in his hand and Mrs. Hudson at his side, Hamish leaned over the baked goods and began to shake the contents of the container out onto them. He grinned at Mrs. Hudson as shiny little specks of red and green covered the stars, perhaps a bit too much. Still yet, he was proud of the job he'd done, and was more than eager to show off to his parents.  
  
"Go on," Mrs. Hudson urged quietly as they reached the top of the steps to 221B. Hamish, armed with a tray of the stars carefully stepped forward, his tongue peeking out from his lips and his brow furrowed in concentration as he walked to the doorway. "Tell them, 'merry Christmas,'" she said as she kissed the top of his head and gently pushed him forward through the door.  
  
In the flat, his Papa was sat on the floor surrounded by heaps of colorful paper and bows and various things they had picked up from the store. He walked in and took a deep breath, hoping to do his best at pronunciation. "May Chri'mas!" he exclaimed happily.   
  
His Papa looked up and smiled, and Hamish took that as his cue to walk over to him as carefully as possible. "Oh, for me? Can I have them all?" he asked. "Or can I just have one for now?"  
  
"One," Hamish replied, knowing they needed to share. At least that high he could count.  
  
"Thank you," he said as he grabbed one from the tray. Sat on the floor next to his Papa, Hamish spotted a steaming mug with a bit of red and white candy stuck out from it. He peered over and into it, wondering why on earth anyone would stick candy in their drink. Surely he would get into trouble if he were to do that, wouldn't he?   
  
Seemingly following his vision, his Papa held up the mug. "Want to taste?"  
  
Hamish nodded in response. The candy was used to stir the drink around for a moment. Hamish became so intensely focused on the disappearing of the red stripes and the steam rising from the drink that he didn't realize a spoonful of the stuff was being held up in front of him. Still holding the tray of stars, he sipped it down, and was pleasantly surprised at the taste of warm chocolate and peppermint that coated his tongue. Why couldn't he have that stuff all the time?  
  
"Good?" Hamish nodded. "Good. You can have some more in a second, but take those over to your Dad," he said, inclining his head towards the kitchen.  
  
His Dad sat at the kitchen table, focusing all of his energy, it seemed, into something under his microscope. Hamish walked over to him and stood patiently at his feet, waiting to be acknowledged.  When no such thing came, he vocalized himself. "Da," he said. He was met with a slight glance and a faint smile, but it was fleeting as he went back to the microscope. Hamish frowned and sat the tray on the floor. Looking for a new approach, he tugged on the man's trousers. "Daddy," he tried again, and this time, his Dad's face bloomed into a full smile that he attempted to hide before he turned to look at him again.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Hamish glanced around and picked a star up from the tray, handing it over. Wanting to see what was so interesting, he made an attempt to crawl up onto his Dad's lap. He was a good climber, really, but he had nothing to help him in this situation. Instead, his Dad's hand tugged him upward, and he was soon sitting on his lap just in time to see him bite into the star.  
  
"Thank you, Hamish," he said after a moment. "You did well, really well!" Hamish grinned. "Perhaps at some point we could reenact crimes using gingerbread men."  
  
"That can be arranged," his Papa called from the living room. "Nothing quite says 'Christmas' like murdered dessert."  
  
A content chuckle came from his Dad. Hamish squirmed around, still interested on whatever he had been looking at. It must have been something really important, he decided. He got himself turned around and tried to look at the microscope, but it just looked like a giant thing of complicated metal to him. How frustrating.  
  
"Here," his Dad said, taking a slide from under the microscope. He broke the star in half, setting the uneaten half underneath. With a few adjustments and a quick look for himself, he urged Hamish to look through the eyepiece. "Go on, tell me what you see."  
  
When Hamish looked through, he was amazed! Everything was so big and colorful, nothing at all like the broken star underneath. It had to have been some sort of magic trick. His Dad and Papa were capable of anything, after all. A grin overtook his face as he looked from the eyepiece back to his Dad, who smiled back at him. He wanted to express his feelings, but he didn't know the words. Someday, he would know exactly what to say. For now, though, he let out a gasp and then whispered, "peety."  
  
"It is rather lovely, isn't it?"  
  
Hamish couldn't stop staring. No wonder his Dad was always busy with this! Suddenly, the star went missing, and the image before him was a blank slab of nothing. Hamish blinked, thinking he must have been seeing things. When he turned to his Dad for an explanation, he figured it out. Hamish pulled his mouth into a thin line and lowered his eyebrows, glaring.  
  
"You look just like your Papa when you do that, a spitting image," his Dad said with a mouthful of the star. He wiped his mouth with his hand as if nothing happened.  
  
Surely, he could get another star, though. He slid off his lap when the mug on the floor caught his attention again. He toddled over to it. "Papa," he said, commanding attention, "Papa, I want mo'"  
  
"You want more what? More hot chocolate?"  
  
Hamish nodded. "Mo' shock-it," he attempted to repeat.  
  
He received an amused giggle in return as his Papa picked up the mug, no longer steaming. "And what do you say?"  
  
In an instant, his features had gone from excited to serious in deep thought. What was he supposed to say? A certain word! Yes! That had to be it, but... What was the word? Was it 'thank you'? No, no, that didn't feel right. The word danced around in his head just out of his grasp for a few moments. Suddenly, a grin stretched from ear to ear as he bounced upwards on his toes, his curls bouncing with him. "Pease!"  
  
The remaining bit of candy was stirred around in the drink as the mug was held near his lips in his Papa's hands. "Careful," he was warned as he wrapped his smaller hands over his Papa's. He was rather proud of his accomplishment, taking a drink from the mug itself just like a grown up.  
  
"Alright, one last job for you now," his Papa said as he pulled the drink away and stood. "You've got to put the angel on the tree."  
  
"Rather unwise, isn't it? Teaching him about a creature of good only to impale it on a tree for decoration?"  
  
He watched in amusement at his Papa rolled his eyes fondly before he picked him up. Bringing them both over to the both, he leaned over and shifted through the items before he picked up what he was looking for. It was handed over to Hamish. There was a doll in his hands. At least, it looked a lot like a doll, but she had no legs! She did have wings, though, and Hamish wondered if she could fly like the birds did.  
  
"It's an angel, Hamish," his Papa explained. "You've got to put her on top the tree there," he was told. "Think you can do that?"  
  
For as long as he could remember, he was told by his parents that he could do absolutely anything. This should be no different! He was raised high up in the air with the little angel in his hands. It took a bit of maneuvering, but he finally got the angel on top of the tree without her falling over. Though, he supposed if she could fly, then falling wouldn't have been so bad. As soon as the task was done, the lights overhead in the flat went off.  
  
"Papa?" he asked in confusion as he was settled onto one of the man's hips.  
  
"It's okay, just look."  
  
Dim firelight filled the room as the flames flickered and danced around each other, outlining the silhouette of the tree. After a moment or two, the tree was lit up, and his Dad was standing next to the two of them. Bright twinkling lights wrapped around it gave the room a colorful glow, and the angel on top seemed to be watching over them. The silvery scarf thing that Hamish was intrigued by made the lights reflect even brighter, as well as all of the ornaments placed lopsidedly in one spot at the bottom of the tree. Large boxes and bags with ribbons and bows surrounded it underneath, and Hamish stared in awe at the sight.  
  
"Look at that, Hamish," his Papa said, "you helped put that together, didn't you?" Hamish nodded. "And you did a wonderful job."  
  
"Quite right," his Dad agreed.  
  
The three of them looked on in admiration at the brilliance in front of them. What a busy day he'd had! Sleepiness suddenly washed over him, and he rubbed at his eyes to try to fight it off. It was a bit useless, though, as a yawn escaped from his mouth. He rested his head on his Papa's shoulder, but promised himself it would only be for a moment.  
  
He sensed his Dad move closer. So quietly he could barely hear it himself, there was a sound of a gentle kiss and words being exchanged behind him. 'Happy Christmas' was what he heard. Hamish turned his in time to see his Papa and Dad sharing a look, their eyes softened and their lips slightly tugging upwards. It was an expression he could never quiet place, but it always made him happy to see it.  
  
After all the time, he still wasn't sure what Christmas was, but everything was bright and happy, and that was good enough for him.  
  
That night, a hand stroked lovingly through his hair as he lay curled up on his Papa's lap, a half eaten star in his little hand long forgotten about. He fell asleep against the comfort of his chest during stories of reindeer and elves and a nice man in a red suit who brought presents to people. The man had a beard, and Hamish's last thought was that perhaps beards weren't scary after all. The night lingered on, and soft, soothing, familiar melodies played through the strings of his Dad's violin as the fireplace flickered, bringing utter warmth throughout the room.  
  
Outside as the clock tower chimed, snow fell quietly and drifted to the ground with a flutter of an angel's wings, blanketing London in serenity.


End file.
